Germination
by Gail
I want to learn the secret
of the dormant seed,
the one that others have mastered;
the way to grow past
and with the gnarled roots
tangled around my beating heart,
choking my breath to a staccato rhythm,
stopping necessary expansion.
Weeding, spreading fertilizer, pruning--
the fragile healthy thoughts
still refuse to sprout,
cluster in the endosperm,
needing some unknown signal or spur.
As the winter-hardy sparrows swoop
by my half-drawn window shade,
the reckless breezes rattle my hair;
the cautious sun extends arthritic fingers;
the old roots relax to that gentleness;
the shy sprouts slip trustingly
into the opening channels:
the answer, borne into me on the bright winds.
